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Coming home to General Zia
When Nazar Abbas returned to Pakistan after seven years in the Foreign Service, he found a country where flogging was routine, where squat toilets were piously promoted by bureaucrats and religious scholars were "stuck" in people's TV sets
When Mr. Mohammad Siddiq Khan Kanju took charge as the Minister of State for Foreign Affairs in the cabinet of Prime Minister Mohammad Nawaz Sharif in 1990, we the office bearers of the Foreign Service Association called on him in his office to welcome him. Mr Kanju appreciated the gesture, listened to us attentively and promised to be helpful. Talking about himself he disclosed that he was not thrilled to get this job. He said that he was in his hometown when, much to his delight, he received a telephone call from the Prime Minister in Islamabad. When he asked Mian sahab what he had in mind for him, the Prime Minister told Mr Kanju he would be given Foreign Affairs. "I laughed," recalled Mr Kanju. "The PM asked me why I laughed-I said sir I will explain when I meet you."
In Islamabad Mr Kanju informed the Prime Minister about his disappointment at getting the Foreign Affairs portfolio which is a death knell for a politician. The job keeps the minister away from his constituency and then his chances of winning the next election diminish drastically. This is what happened to Mr Kanju. He lost his seat in the next elections.
Mr Kanju had reasons for not liking his portfolio; he also regarded the Foreign Service as an elite service. When we informed him that the CSS exam candidates now gave Foreign Service a much lower preference-below DMG, Customs, Police, Income Tax, etc., he was genuinely surprised.
The general impression about the diplomatic service is that of a life of luxury and limelight in the world capitals. I thought so too until I knew better. In fact it is a mixed blessing. My first posting was to Turkey as Third Secretary. Turkey is a wondrous country and Turks our dear friends. Every Minister or any other dignitary visiting from Pakistan would first of all pay his respects and lay a floral wreath on the mausoleum of Ataturk. All of us, the Embassy officers and our wives, would accompany them. Another popular place of pilgrimage for Pakistani visitors is Konya, where Maulana Rumi is buried. My next posting was to Libya as Second Secretary. Pakistan enjoyed excellent relations with Gadhafi's Libya when Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was Prime Minister. The relations deteriorated when General Zia-ul-Haq overthrew Bhutto and hanged him.
The life abroad was easier for me than in Islamabad. In our Foreign Service the normal practice is for an officer to be posted for a period of three years at one station. In my case there was a little deviation. I stayed in Ankara for two and a half years and in Tripoli for four and a half years. So, except for a brief visit in between, I and my wife had been away for nearly seven years before we returned to Pakistan. Many things had changed in the meantime. Pakistan, as we all know, has never been out of the woods. Our dear country has been standing on the edge of the precipice-wars with India, floods and earthquakes, military takeovers, refugees from Afghanistan et al. When it moves away from the precipice it stands on a "khatarnak mor" and from there to another khatarnak mor. So its financial constraints restricted allowances in the Missions abroad to a minimum. On the brighter side, the residential accommodation provided by the government to Foreign Service officers is reasonably good. The pay and allowances cover the living expenses of self and family, but unless one is very frugal no savings are left to bring back to Pakistan. Pakistan Embassy officials and diplomats everywhere are frequent visitors to local flea markets.
So back in Islamabad the first major problem was to find a place to store my personal belongings, dispatched by sea from Tripoli, which had arrived in Karachi. Getting the belongings released from customs after paying the duties and demurrage charges and transporting them by truck to Islamabad was another ordeal. And then I had to find a place to rent for living in. There is always a long waiting list for government accommodation. Even rooms in the hostel are hard to get. It is possible to get a private house on rent and get it approved by the Ministry of Housing and Works. But this exercise takes months. Some landlords would refuse to rent out their houses and apartments to government servants. The market rate of rents would always be significantly higher than the government rent entitlement. For over a year, I with my wife and two small children, lived for different durations, in turn, in one room of the hostel; with my nephew in a small apartment and with my brother-in-law in his Air Force house in Chaklala. At long last one landlord agreed that I get one portion of his house hired by the Government for me on the condition that I would pay the difference above what the government would pay as my entitlement. Now for the procedures and paperwork! The application was admitted and the official surveyor visited the house. He raised some objections, delaying the approval and making me pay the full rent till the date of the official letter of approval. One of my colleagues, a Section officer of grade 17, found the house of the right size but the Ministry objected that it did not have a car garage. He pleaded that his request for the grant of a car loan had been rejected because, according to rules, a grade 17 officer was not entitled to apply for a car; he could apply only for a motorcycle advance. He was told rules were rules and could not be changed. But if the juniors cannot change the rules made by higher authorities, they can at least bend them. (And bending the rules, as well know, is a very lucrative business here and enjoyed by all.) So the Ministry's official showed the neighbour's car garage as part of my colleague's rented house. Mind that he had to have a garage even though he was not allowed to keep a car!
After working and living abroad for seven years as an accredited diplomat, the rigours of life at home seemed daunting. Colleagues and officials from other departments and ministries would generally be envious of us Foreign Office employees because of our postings abroad but would also consider us useless because we did not wield any authority which could be exercised to help or harm them. In the family and among relations too we would be like strangers; many small children had grown up in seven years and would not recognize us. The adults too did not associate with us as much as they used to. Personal belongings left behind for safekeeping had disappeared. The job in the office was familiar but managing domestic affairs and making ends meet was tough. One had to get used to currency exchange rates, the prices in rupees having gone high in the intervening years. I produced Rs 10 to buy a live cockerel-that is what I used to pay when I left in 1972-and the man demanded Rs 35! The programs on PTV were different - my favourites like 'Get Smart', 'Kalian' and 'Fifty Fifty' were no longer shown.
Military dictator Zia-ul-Haq had begun to use public flogging as an instrument of governance. When I had left in April 1972, West Pakistan was traumatized by the loss of East Pakistan but also enthused with the hope of making a new Pakistan. Now the charismatic democratic leader Bhutto had been hanged and a cloak of false piety covered every sphere of life. In the government apartment allotted to me the previous residents had converted one of the European commodes in the toilet into an Asian one. I requested Maintenance Department to get it converted back to the original or let me get it done at my own cost. I was told to approach the director. He refused my request, telling me that the Asian commode was appropriate for 'taharat' (ablution) and the European commode was un-Islamic! In my village, as in many others, General Zia's abuse of religion had led to sectarian divisions and violence. Religious leaders - genuine and fake alike - held sway in daily life and on TV. General Zia-ul-Haq too had heard the popular joke that someone called PTV and complained that his TV set had gone out of order because a maulvi had got stuck in it. The president personally assured the nation that the maulvi will remain stuck in the TV. As a friend pointed out, the Meteorological Department during Zia's reign would not forecast rain and thunderstorm because that was encroaching upon the Divine authority-they only gave the temperatures, direction of wind and rain of the past 24 hours. The use of the expression "The Third World" was disallowed because that could be associated with Bhutto, who was known as a leader of The Third World. Zia modified the poetry of Shahbaz Kalandar by changing the words "Ali da pehla number" to "Ali dum dum dey andar". The Dictator did not need anyone's permission - even the country's constitution was a piece of paper for him.
The atmospherics in the capital, as in the whole country, were oppressive. Still it was good to be back home. It is essential for a diplomat representing his country abroad to be well informed about his own country's policies, art, culture, economy, politics, history, geography, etc. While abroad I would feel that I had not seen much of my own country. I therefore decided that before going for my next posting I will visit, with my wife and children, the places which I would be able to describe to friends abroad. So, driving in my own Suzuki van, we made trips to Chilas, Gilgit, Hunza, Swat, Parachinar, Peshawar, Murree, Patriata, Quetta, Kohistan-e-Namak, etc. It was a rewarding experience, educative and entertaining. Children liked the outings too and were able to talk about these places to their school friends when abroad.
There was much financial strain in the household during the four and a half years that I spent in Islamabad before my next posting to Yorkshire in England. But there was much to celebrate too. The warmth of blood relations, the sincere support of friends, the frank discussions and conversations, the sharing of joys and grief with fellow beings, the constant sound of one's own language and vocabulary was all welcome and pleasing. Even strangers would sometimes captivate your heart with their magnanimous acts and gestures. One rainy day my wife and I were going in our Suzuki "pick-up" van which I was driving. The roads were flooded. In the middle of the road in Islamabad sector F-6/4 the car stalled; the knee-deep water had gone into the engine. It was still raining heavily and there was no other vehicle or person around. We kept sitting in our vehicle waiting for the rain to stop and then try to get some help. After a few minutes the rain slowed down to a drizzle. I asked my wife to wait inside the Suzuki while I fetched a mechanic. Just then a gentleman covering his head with a small waterproof plastic sheet appeared. I rolled down the car window. The gentleman offered to help start the engine. I gratefully accepted and opened the hood. He spent a few minutes working on the engine and asked me to put on the ignition. To our delight, it started. I came out, shook hands with the man and thanked him, and indicated that I would like to pay for the service. But I could immediately see from his bearing and conversation that he was not a professional mechanic but a well-to-do and educated person. He said he was sitting next to the window in his house across the road, saw our Suzuki stall, understood our predicament and decided to come and help. I thanked him profusely and my wife and I thought out aloud how good it was to be in one's own country.
Years have passed but I vividly remember one very hot sunny June day. I was driving my old Volkswagen, attired in a well-pressed suit and tie. I was going to a government office to attend an important meeting where I was to be one of my Ministry's representatives. I was going on the service road leading from sector I-8 of Islamabad to the Kashmir highway. I was on the portion of the road where it is open on both sides with no building, structure or shade for hundreds of meters around when one of the tyres flattened. Before stopping I veered the car a yard off the road onto the open space. I sighed, cursed my luck, came out of the car sweating badly. Having no choice but to change the tyre myself, I took off my jacket and tie and braced myself for the ordeal: I opened the boot to take out the spare wheel. Just then I heard some voices behind me. I looked and saw a group of scruffy youngsters shabbily dressed and in slippers. I could immediately make out that they were Christians; cleaners from the "kachchi abadi." They were going somewhere when they saw me and came over. The two older ones took the jack and whatever I was holding from me and told me to leave the job to them. Thanking them, I asked them to lend me a hand while I changed the tyre. They told me respectfully but firmly just to leave it to them. I waited under the shade of the only tree some ten paces away. They took out the tools, jacked up the car, changed the punctured tyre with the spare one, put back everything in its place and gestured to me that the car was ready. I uttered whatever good words of gratitude I could think of; took out some money for them to buy cold drinks or whatever they wanted. With a frown they refused, saying they did not do it for money. They said goodbye to me and were on their way, singing and jumping. I stood there for a couple of minutes, my eyes following them some distance. Years have passed since then. I still see those noble figures on whom poverty was writ large but whose hearts of gold it could not erode.
Nazar Abbas is a former Ambassador of Pakistan. He may be reached at Nazareabbas14@yahoo.com
When Nazar Abbas returned to Pakistan after seven years in the Foreign Service, he found a country where flogging was routine, where squat toilets were piously promoted by bureaucrats and religious scholars were "stuck" in people's TV sets
When Mr. Mohammad Siddiq Khan Kanju took charge as the Minister of State for Foreign Affairs in the cabinet of Prime Minister Mohammad Nawaz Sharif in 1990, we the office bearers of the Foreign Service Association called on him in his office to welcome him. Mr Kanju appreciated the gesture, listened to us attentively and promised to be helpful. Talking about himself he disclosed that he was not thrilled to get this job. He said that he was in his hometown when, much to his delight, he received a telephone call from the Prime Minister in Islamabad. When he asked Mian sahab what he had in mind for him, the Prime Minister told Mr Kanju he would be given Foreign Affairs. "I laughed," recalled Mr Kanju. "The PM asked me why I laughed-I said sir I will explain when I meet you."
In Islamabad Mr Kanju informed the Prime Minister about his disappointment at getting the Foreign Affairs portfolio which is a death knell for a politician. The job keeps the minister away from his constituency and then his chances of winning the next election diminish drastically. This is what happened to Mr Kanju. He lost his seat in the next elections.
Mr Kanju had reasons for not liking his portfolio; he also regarded the Foreign Service as an elite service. When we informed him that the CSS exam candidates now gave Foreign Service a much lower preference-below DMG, Customs, Police, Income Tax, etc., he was genuinely surprised.
The general impression about the diplomatic service is that of a life of luxury and limelight in the world capitals. I thought so too until I knew better. In fact it is a mixed blessing. My first posting was to Turkey as Third Secretary. Turkey is a wondrous country and Turks our dear friends. Every Minister or any other dignitary visiting from Pakistan would first of all pay his respects and lay a floral wreath on the mausoleum of Ataturk. All of us, the Embassy officers and our wives, would accompany them. Another popular place of pilgrimage for Pakistani visitors is Konya, where Maulana Rumi is buried. My next posting was to Libya as Second Secretary. Pakistan enjoyed excellent relations with Gadhafi's Libya when Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was Prime Minister. The relations deteriorated when General Zia-ul-Haq overthrew Bhutto and hanged him.
The life abroad was easier for me than in Islamabad. In our Foreign Service the normal practice is for an officer to be posted for a period of three years at one station. In my case there was a little deviation. I stayed in Ankara for two and a half years and in Tripoli for four and a half years. So, except for a brief visit in between, I and my wife had been away for nearly seven years before we returned to Pakistan. Many things had changed in the meantime. Pakistan, as we all know, has never been out of the woods. Our dear country has been standing on the edge of the precipice-wars with India, floods and earthquakes, military takeovers, refugees from Afghanistan et al. When it moves away from the precipice it stands on a "khatarnak mor" and from there to another khatarnak mor. So its financial constraints restricted allowances in the Missions abroad to a minimum. On the brighter side, the residential accommodation provided by the government to Foreign Service officers is reasonably good. The pay and allowances cover the living expenses of self and family, but unless one is very frugal no savings are left to bring back to Pakistan. Pakistan Embassy officials and diplomats everywhere are frequent visitors to local flea markets.
So back in Islamabad the first major problem was to find a place to store my personal belongings, dispatched by sea from Tripoli, which had arrived in Karachi. Getting the belongings released from customs after paying the duties and demurrage charges and transporting them by truck to Islamabad was another ordeal. And then I had to find a place to rent for living in. There is always a long waiting list for government accommodation. Even rooms in the hostel are hard to get. It is possible to get a private house on rent and get it approved by the Ministry of Housing and Works. But this exercise takes months. Some landlords would refuse to rent out their houses and apartments to government servants. The market rate of rents would always be significantly higher than the government rent entitlement. For over a year, I with my wife and two small children, lived for different durations, in turn, in one room of the hostel; with my nephew in a small apartment and with my brother-in-law in his Air Force house in Chaklala. At long last one landlord agreed that I get one portion of his house hired by the Government for me on the condition that I would pay the difference above what the government would pay as my entitlement. Now for the procedures and paperwork! The application was admitted and the official surveyor visited the house. He raised some objections, delaying the approval and making me pay the full rent till the date of the official letter of approval. One of my colleagues, a Section officer of grade 17, found the house of the right size but the Ministry objected that it did not have a car garage. He pleaded that his request for the grant of a car loan had been rejected because, according to rules, a grade 17 officer was not entitled to apply for a car; he could apply only for a motorcycle advance. He was told rules were rules and could not be changed. But if the juniors cannot change the rules made by higher authorities, they can at least bend them. (And bending the rules, as well know, is a very lucrative business here and enjoyed by all.) So the Ministry's official showed the neighbour's car garage as part of my colleague's rented house. Mind that he had to have a garage even though he was not allowed to keep a car!
After working and living abroad for seven years as an accredited diplomat, the rigours of life at home seemed daunting. Colleagues and officials from other departments and ministries would generally be envious of us Foreign Office employees because of our postings abroad but would also consider us useless because we did not wield any authority which could be exercised to help or harm them. In the family and among relations too we would be like strangers; many small children had grown up in seven years and would not recognize us. The adults too did not associate with us as much as they used to. Personal belongings left behind for safekeeping had disappeared. The job in the office was familiar but managing domestic affairs and making ends meet was tough. One had to get used to currency exchange rates, the prices in rupees having gone high in the intervening years. I produced Rs 10 to buy a live cockerel-that is what I used to pay when I left in 1972-and the man demanded Rs 35! The programs on PTV were different - my favourites like 'Get Smart', 'Kalian' and 'Fifty Fifty' were no longer shown.
Military dictator Zia-ul-Haq had begun to use public flogging as an instrument of governance. When I had left in April 1972, West Pakistan was traumatized by the loss of East Pakistan but also enthused with the hope of making a new Pakistan. Now the charismatic democratic leader Bhutto had been hanged and a cloak of false piety covered every sphere of life. In the government apartment allotted to me the previous residents had converted one of the European commodes in the toilet into an Asian one. I requested Maintenance Department to get it converted back to the original or let me get it done at my own cost. I was told to approach the director. He refused my request, telling me that the Asian commode was appropriate for 'taharat' (ablution) and the European commode was un-Islamic! In my village, as in many others, General Zia's abuse of religion had led to sectarian divisions and violence. Religious leaders - genuine and fake alike - held sway in daily life and on TV. General Zia-ul-Haq too had heard the popular joke that someone called PTV and complained that his TV set had gone out of order because a maulvi had got stuck in it. The president personally assured the nation that the maulvi will remain stuck in the TV. As a friend pointed out, the Meteorological Department during Zia's reign would not forecast rain and thunderstorm because that was encroaching upon the Divine authority-they only gave the temperatures, direction of wind and rain of the past 24 hours. The use of the expression "The Third World" was disallowed because that could be associated with Bhutto, who was known as a leader of The Third World. Zia modified the poetry of Shahbaz Kalandar by changing the words "Ali da pehla number" to "Ali dum dum dey andar". The Dictator did not need anyone's permission - even the country's constitution was a piece of paper for him.
The atmospherics in the capital, as in the whole country, were oppressive. Still it was good to be back home. It is essential for a diplomat representing his country abroad to be well informed about his own country's policies, art, culture, economy, politics, history, geography, etc. While abroad I would feel that I had not seen much of my own country. I therefore decided that before going for my next posting I will visit, with my wife and children, the places which I would be able to describe to friends abroad. So, driving in my own Suzuki van, we made trips to Chilas, Gilgit, Hunza, Swat, Parachinar, Peshawar, Murree, Patriata, Quetta, Kohistan-e-Namak, etc. It was a rewarding experience, educative and entertaining. Children liked the outings too and were able to talk about these places to their school friends when abroad.
There was much financial strain in the household during the four and a half years that I spent in Islamabad before my next posting to Yorkshire in England. But there was much to celebrate too. The warmth of blood relations, the sincere support of friends, the frank discussions and conversations, the sharing of joys and grief with fellow beings, the constant sound of one's own language and vocabulary was all welcome and pleasing. Even strangers would sometimes captivate your heart with their magnanimous acts and gestures. One rainy day my wife and I were going in our Suzuki "pick-up" van which I was driving. The roads were flooded. In the middle of the road in Islamabad sector F-6/4 the car stalled; the knee-deep water had gone into the engine. It was still raining heavily and there was no other vehicle or person around. We kept sitting in our vehicle waiting for the rain to stop and then try to get some help. After a few minutes the rain slowed down to a drizzle. I asked my wife to wait inside the Suzuki while I fetched a mechanic. Just then a gentleman covering his head with a small waterproof plastic sheet appeared. I rolled down the car window. The gentleman offered to help start the engine. I gratefully accepted and opened the hood. He spent a few minutes working on the engine and asked me to put on the ignition. To our delight, it started. I came out, shook hands with the man and thanked him, and indicated that I would like to pay for the service. But I could immediately see from his bearing and conversation that he was not a professional mechanic but a well-to-do and educated person. He said he was sitting next to the window in his house across the road, saw our Suzuki stall, understood our predicament and decided to come and help. I thanked him profusely and my wife and I thought out aloud how good it was to be in one's own country.
Years have passed but I vividly remember one very hot sunny June day. I was driving my old Volkswagen, attired in a well-pressed suit and tie. I was going to a government office to attend an important meeting where I was to be one of my Ministry's representatives. I was going on the service road leading from sector I-8 of Islamabad to the Kashmir highway. I was on the portion of the road where it is open on both sides with no building, structure or shade for hundreds of meters around when one of the tyres flattened. Before stopping I veered the car a yard off the road onto the open space. I sighed, cursed my luck, came out of the car sweating badly. Having no choice but to change the tyre myself, I took off my jacket and tie and braced myself for the ordeal: I opened the boot to take out the spare wheel. Just then I heard some voices behind me. I looked and saw a group of scruffy youngsters shabbily dressed and in slippers. I could immediately make out that they were Christians; cleaners from the "kachchi abadi." They were going somewhere when they saw me and came over. The two older ones took the jack and whatever I was holding from me and told me to leave the job to them. Thanking them, I asked them to lend me a hand while I changed the tyre. They told me respectfully but firmly just to leave it to them. I waited under the shade of the only tree some ten paces away. They took out the tools, jacked up the car, changed the punctured tyre with the spare one, put back everything in its place and gestured to me that the car was ready. I uttered whatever good words of gratitude I could think of; took out some money for them to buy cold drinks or whatever they wanted. With a frown they refused, saying they did not do it for money. They said goodbye to me and were on their way, singing and jumping. I stood there for a couple of minutes, my eyes following them some distance. Years have passed since then. I still see those noble figures on whom poverty was writ large but whose hearts of gold it could not erode.
Nazar Abbas is a former Ambassador of Pakistan. He may be reached at Nazareabbas14@yahoo.com
